


Minnesota Girls

by Alethia



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, First Times, High School, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-06-20
Updated: 2006-06-20
Packaged: 2018-01-10 15:27:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1161429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alethia/pseuds/Alethia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>First times are rarely perfect, Dean’s included. That doesn’t really work for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Minnesota Girls

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to guede_mazaka for the beta. Originally posted on LJ [here](http://alethialia.livejournal.com/209935.html).

Minnesota it is, then, and Dean’s all right with that. He has good memories of Minnesota girls and, time-willing, he’ll have even more before they have to up and leave again.

And Dean damn well better because he does not need to be sounding all like Sammy, whiny about having to move yet again, only for different reasons entirely. For the last three schools Dean had had something going, had been working three different girls and had just about sealed the deal, was a couple dates and a few sweet nothings from in their pants, only to find out Dad was moving them on. Again.

A man had his limits and those limits had apparently been reached, proven most starkly when he’d snapped at Dad that they better stay here long enough for him to get laid or else he was gonna lose it and wouldn’t be held responsible for his actions.

Needless to say, he hadn’t actually meant to say all that, and not in that tone, either, but Dad just shook his head, like _of course_ , and said he’d wondered what had crawled up Dean’s ass and _died_.

He didn’t say they’d stay, though, which was what had Dean scoping every single chick the first day of school. He’d picked her out immediately: that sassy brunette whose eyes had dropped to crotch-level the moment she’d spotted him.

Dean had smirked, walked right up to her, making sure to keep his eyes on hers, smiling in that way that made all the girls flutter their eyelashes at him.

“She has a boyfriend,” a nameless friend said, all pissy on behalf of the girl who was currently eating him with her eyes.

“Oh, where’s he, then?” Because if you couldn’t defend it, you didn’t fucking _deserve_ it, and the girl had shrugged and smiled, and he returned it. 

That boyfriend never did materialize nor did he even protest that his girl had suddenly dropped him for the new kid. Granted, Dean wasn’t paying very close attention—it wasn’t like it was even worth learning most of these kids’ names—but still. One would think that if he cared… 

But then again, Dean supposed it spoke slightly better of the kid, that he could recognize a threat when it presented itself and, understanding how outmatched he was, make himself scarce. Dean knew all about living to fight another day. 

But on the whole he really couldn’t care. Dean had much more pressing concerns. Like his dick.

He took her out that night, Stephanie, and they didn’t even make it to the movies, his hands up her sweater and rocking against her shortly after she’d licked her lips and suggested a wrong turn.

But she still had to go and do the girl thing, like she couldn’t put out immediately because that would be slutty, so it took him a whole two weeks of taking her nowhere and making her moan to finally convince her that, really, having half the show was only shorting herself.

They were both getting what they wanted; he was just making it that much easier for her to swallow. 

So it wasn’t difficult at all to convince her to go on a “picnic” one Saturday afternoon and Dean smirks at the memory of how quickly she’d jumped at the offer. Like she was that innocent by half.

But he has a blanket and condoms and even if it doesn’t happen today, it’s going to happen. They both know that.

He doesn’t even have to honk when he drives to her house; she’s waiting there, sitting in the hazy sunlight on her front steps and hot damn, if that isn’t a picnic basket in her hands.

He has a brief moment to worry about the fact that she actually might think this is a picnic, but it’s gone when she hops in, tossing the basket in the back like it’s full to the brim with nothing, and squeezing his thigh.

Dean smirks at her and guns the engine.

The one thing he does like about her is that she doesn’t chatter chatter chatter like a lot of the girls do, just directs him in a clipped tone: right here, left there, follow this winding curve to the end, no one’ll come looking here.

Dean loves a girl with priorities and thank fucking _God_ , this one’s actually willing to admit what she wants, unlike all those other girls who either wouldn’t because then they’d be easy or couldn’t because they were just that repressed.

Then they’re there, wherever there is, though Dean’s sure he could point to the spot on a map in a second, overlaying his scouting of the area with the directions she gave him, recall fast-perfect like Dad insists. Stephanie doesn’t even bother bringing the basket, and her raised eyebrow tells him she’s not gonna be a help with the blanket, but he can deal.

He’s dealt with much worse than carrying a fucking blanket, that’s for sure.

She leads—ladies first, ha—and they wind through the forest, she knows this place well, for a bit before she stops and looks up at a gigantic sugar maple, all brilliant multi-color leaves, cocking her head like it’s a choice.

Dean makes it for her, dumping the blanket on a bed of bright oranges and reds and yellows a little ways from the roots, shrugging off his jacket and setting it aside so it won’t get dirty.

“Well?” he asks, pulling her to him by an arm and settling her body against him, liking the way she fits as she does.

“What, no romance?” Her voice is lilting with false innocence, playing the dewy-eyed schoolgirl she so isn’t, some kind of joke, and Dean rolls his eyes, pushing at her jacket.

“I don’t see you lighting candles, babe.” She lets him push the jacket off, doesn’t even care where it lands, and Dean leans down to kiss her for that.

She gives up the act and finally gets with the program, opening her mouth as her hands go around his waist to both lean in and start tugging at his shirt. Excellent. Preliminaries over with.

“I’d settle for finding a bed,” she murmurs against his mouth, slipping her hands under his shirt and tracing across the muscles of his back.

Dean imagines taking this issue to Dad…and wow, bad thought, but he huffs out a slight laugh anyway, pushing her hair out of her face and kissing her more firmly, tongue tangling with hers. “Next time.” 

But then she tickles her tongue across the roof of his mouth and like that it’s _molten_ , thought just _gone_ , a heated scramble to shed clothes and she _so_ didn’t wear a bra—awesome—Dean’s hands loving the feel of her skin, hot against the cool air.

And yeah, it’s cold, so he nudges her back onto the blanket, pulling off her pants as she goes, stretching out to cover her, even as he struggles with his own jeans, decides to fuck it, they can do the whole naked thing some other time when they weren’t outside and in the forest. 

Stephanie doesn’t seem to mind, rubbing up against him, stretched out on the blue plaid blanket and clad only in her open button-down and a pair of panties. It occurs to Dean that this is about as far as he’s gotten with, well, anyone.

But she’s kissing him again and he doesn’t think of it, just goes with what feels good, trailing fingers all over her skin, unerringly going for her underwear as he sucks a nipple into his mouth.

She laughs. “You do get to the point.”

He bites and she arches, gasps, lifting her hips up enough for him to hook his finger under the elastic and pull down. Dean shifts to the side, pulls them off one leg and then fuck it, it works for him. He covers her again, swallowing her laugh even as she spreads her legs and grinds up against him, Dean’s vision darkening at the edges for an instant.

Dean growls, shifts his jeans and boxers out of the way, pausing only to grab one of the handy condoms in his pockets and jerkily slide it on, before he’s pressing her back, pressing in, and she’s making a pleased sound low in her throat, face flushed and breathing hard.

And— _God_. He’d—fuck—he’d heard it was good, but the overwhelming heat of it gets to him, pleasure all-encompassing, pressing in close already.

He’s having sex. This is sex.

Stephanie shifts beneath him, even just that little bit setting off waves of sensation that drag a low moan from his throat, pull a shaking thrust from him, even if he hadn’t planned it. Stephanie moans, too, hands curled into his sides.

And God she’s wet, hot and smooth and liquid all around him, so good he’s already shaking. His body reacts instinctively—Dean knows to go with his instincts—and thrusts again, burying himself in that tight, wet heat again and just that—just that—

Dean grits his teeth as he comes, pleasure a white-hot bolt that comes out of _nowhere_ , skimming electricity across every nerve, hollowing him out with something so good he couldn’t even see it until it was there.

After is breathing and holding himself up on one arm automatically and Stephanie is very, very still underneath him.

Fuck. _Fuck_.

He meets her eyes and he can see it, the thought, the ‘what am I doing here?’ thought that he never, ever needed to see.

“That it?” She’s not laughing at him—outwardly—but the suggestion is there.

But. He’s still inside her and she’s still wet.

“That’s just not gonna work for me, sweetheart,” he says, a moment before he has her hips in his hands, holding her there as his thumbs traced the hollows, not letting her move.

Because she didn’t come and that’s the first thing he’s going to see to and after that he’ll get back to the thing where he didn’t get to fully appreciate that finally, after five million fuckin’ teases, he got to be inside some girl when he came and not sprawled back against the bathroom door—so his little fucking brother doesn’t walk in—with his pants bunched at his knees and his hand around his dick.

She’s looking interested again, like maybe she likes it when someone takes a firm hand with her, and Dean can do that, he’s all over that, just like he’s all over letting go of her hip to trail one hand in between her legs, teasing at the wetness there and letting his fingers explore until she’s panting, until he’s found that one spot that makes her throat work and her head fly back in a way that’s not totally annoying. He can feel the clench around him and it’s good, good enough to have him back in the game and Dean pulls out, ignoring the way she moans, like not again.

He ignores that as he ties off the first condom and pumps himself a few times, gets another condom on—Dean Winchester is nothing if not fucking prepared, prepared to be fucking, heh—and just flexes right back into her, a smooth slide that has her moaning, legs gripping him and squeezing. This is definitely fucking, this hard snap in, and her voice has gone rough and low and Dean lets his fingers keep playing her as he moves, in and out, the snaking pleasure of it coiling down his spine.

But no, the first gave him some control and he clings to it, grits his teeth and keeps going, really feeling it in the stretch of his muscles as he thrusts into her again and again, and she’s shaking and moving against him, tits moving with her and the visual is just gravy, makes it that much better.

But it’s a tease and he latches onto a nipple again, tonguing it as she moans, as he continues to thrust into her, wholly sinking into the pleasure of it, of what it feels like to be inside a girl, way better than he’d expected.

Better like when she grunts and digs her heels into his back, trying to get him to move faster or get more or something. Better like how her wordless cries don’t echo at all, just disappear, because they’re out in the middle of the forest and no one’s gonna be finding them anytime soon, meaning he can really do this, pin her hip to the ground and drive into her like she wants.

Better, better, it’s all better, and _this_ is how real men fuck: smooth and controlled as the chick completely falls apart.

His knees hurt, but only dimly, because he’s got her thrashing, got her grunting in frustration when he moves a hand under her hips, rocks back onto his heels and pulls her onto him—a little awkward because of his jeans, but he makes it work. The muscles in his calves and his arms burn, not that it matters when Stephanie just _loses_ it, can’t control this at all so she brings her own hand down and starts rubbing herself off, even as she jerks herself down onto him.

She’s gasping like there’s not enough air in the world and it makes Dean realize so is he, only more trained, tight, sharp inhales that bring in the scent of sweat and sex and dirt and maple leaves. But he knows himself, knows his limits, and he could keep this up for a good few minutes before he’d need to change positions, and she’s not lasting that long, not by half with the way she’s touching herself and arching her head back, hair trailing down and swaying with her movements.

Dean pulls her onto him harder, flexes up just at the same time, and she makes a really loud sound, muscles all clenching around him, all tight and hot and wet and Dean thrusts into her a couple more strokes and then he’s done, groaning as he shoots inside her, muscles going liquid as a thick clench of heat pulses through him, a loud rush that rings in his ears as it pours out in a skin-tingling wave.

Better, better than before anyway, with her still contracting around him, and Dean closes his eyes and just breathes.

Coming down from that is—awkward and fumbling and stark, but they both manage to stay on the blanket and nothing is broken so Dean figures it’s not worth worrying over, not when he could breathe and breathe some more and register how shocky his muscles have gone, the little aftershocks twitching through them in nothing even close to bad.

Oh, _hell yes_. That’s the first thought that registers. He will be doing this a lot, all the time, if he has anything to say about it.

Stephanie doesn’t sound too against the idea, either, what with the way she’s panting. She ain’t laughing now.

“Oh, my God,” she breathes, somewhat after the fact but whatever, Dean can be generous. He just got laid. Finally.

He makes a noncommittal noise, turning onto his side and ignoring the way the sweat makes his jeans damp and gross because, really, the visual is so worth it. Stephanie looks exactly like what she’s been doing, a leaf somehow twisted in her hair, lips puffy and red, blinking like she can’t get the world to focus—not to mention that she’s practically naked and flushed, sun painting little stripes on her skin through the trees—and if anyone happens upon her in the next, oh, hour probably, they won’t need to even ask. It’s written in every line of her.

Dean smirks; he can’t help it.

“Don’t know why you’re so pleased with yourself, seeing as it took you two tries,” she grunts, going for casual and uncaring and only managing to seem breathless and well-fucked.

“Practice makes perfect.” Because what else can you say when, really, it’s true?

“If you’re looking for perfection, seems like we’re gonna need a whole lot more practice.” And ouch, but she’s rolling smoothly on top of him and he’d liked her bite to begin with.

She leans down to kiss him, but he grabs her chin, holds her away as he watches her, won’t relent when she presses. But she stops, getting it, and only then does Dean move his hand to the back of her neck, pulling her down onto him and crushing her lips to his. Yeah, he can have some fun with her so long as they’re on the same page with things. Which, by the way she’s kissing him back, they so are.

He breaks the kiss easily, running his thumb over her bottom lip.

“Lucky for you, I’m a devoted study.” His voice is something else, gravelly, and he’s never heard it like that.

She snorts and somehow it’s not totally prissy and annoying. “That’s not what the other kids say, you messing with all the teachers the way you do.” Okay, and maybe he’ll even have some fun with her outside the sack. He’s always liked the ones who don’t take the bullshit most everybody lives.

“Weak personalities,” he murmurs, rolling them over so she’s under him again, all hot skin and squirming against him in that nice way she has. She gets a leg around, pulls him to her and hmm. A round three is a definite possibility here.

“Not like me.” She lifts her chin, her hair failing away from her face; she’s proud of that, of the distinction, and it shows in the way her eyes hope for it. A girl, then, through and through.

More importantly, he can give it to her. “Not like you.” Another leaf falls into her hair, this one a bright crimson, and he plucks it away, watching as it flutters onto the ground beside them. Dean leans down then, licking into her mouth and grunting his approval when her nails bite into his back.

Oh, yes, how he does love Minnesota girls.

***

Fin. Feedback is adored.


End file.
